


this place is a shelter

by ilfirin_estel



Series: this place is a shelter [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fallen!Castiel, Genderqueer Character, Other, Post Season 8, genderqueer!Castiel, queer!Dean, rule 63!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilfirin_estel/pseuds/ilfirin_estel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-indulgent AU bunker fic featuring identifying-as-queer!Dean who talks about having femme tendencies, FAAB-vesseled!Castiel who wants to start packing, and Sam who is confused but well meaning and supportive.</p>
<p>Whatever she is, Dean knows Cas is Cas.  His Cas.  That's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this place is a shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [necrotype](https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/gifts).



> This is seriously one of the most self-indulgent fics I have ever written. It's basically a gigantic excuse for me to write about packing, tbh, and there are a ton of personal feelings in here. I’m genderqueer and, that being said, I totally 100% understand that I have a lot of internalized cissexism and if you see anything problematic in here of that sort and otherwise, please call me out!
> 
> Some warnings about general cissexism and gender essentialism are needed (like "boys don't do this" "so... penis envy?"). If I've forgotten to warn for something, please let me know and I'll add to this list.
> 
> Also, this is a sequel to [this is the way it goes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/856679).

“Hey, if Cas were in a male vessel, would you two still be together?” Sam asks Dean over a cup of the coffee one lazy Saturday morning at the bunker.  It’s a good thing Dean just set his own coffee mug down because he’s sure he would have dropped it.

“Uh,” he says, articulate as ever.  “Why?”

Sam shrugs, flips through his newspaper like this line of conversation is really no big deal.  “Just wondering.  She is— _was_ an angel.  Wasn’t there like a 50-50 shot of her winding up in a male vessel?  I just wonder if it matters to her.  Or if it would matter to you.”

Dean puts the kettle on the stove and rummages through the cabinets for stuff to make some tea for Cas.  She’s still in bed, maybe he can escape this conversation by bringing her a cup.

It’s not that he doesn’t have an answer.  He’s thought about it, yeah, thought about what it’d be like to have a Cas that has a lower voice, larger hands, harder skin.  It’s not like Dean’s only been with women over the years—Sam doesn’t know that, of course, because for all that Sam is the liberal college boy, Dean’s never really been able to say _hey, I’m queer_ to him.

Dean figured out a bunch of identity shit in the Stanford-era of their lives that he’s never really talked about with Sam—like the _I like dudes and ladies_ revelation.  The labeling dilemma led to an awesome conversation with a fellow hunter about the attitude of _I like what I like and I’m not worried about labels and boxes and shit, so I’m queer.  That’s it._  

There’s a queer community within the hunter community that Dean is quite happy to privately be part of.  He doesn’t wave a flag or go to rallies, but there have been trips here and there over the years to gay bars and the small queer hunter spaces.  Not always even to cruise, just to sit and have a drink with his people.  To not have to worry about what anyone else thinks of him checking out any person he finds attractive.

Cas knows all this—they had that talk back during the Apocalypse and it actually started out as a conversation about _her_ identity rather than his.  Jamie Novak had a wife, so when Dean offered to be Cas’s wingman that stormy night before summoning Raphael, he figured Cas also maybe being queer wasn’t out of the question.

“Hey, I won’t judge if you don’t want to sleep with a guy,” he’d said, trying to ignore the flush that bloomed across Cas’s cheeks.  She wouldn’t look him in the eye—and he felt like he recognized that discomfort, the apprehension that came with someone mentioning something he kept hidden.  Maybe that’s why he said it then: “I’m not straight, myself.”

Cas took the confession in stride and stuttered through a couple of her own confessions after.  The first, that she was alone in her body, Jamie Novak’s soul having departed when Raphael killed her.  The second, that her sexuality was a confusing thing to her—“I don’t know what I like, except…”  And then she’d looked at him directly, an unfamiliar heat in her eyes.  “Except I think I would rather sleep with you than anyone else.”

So began the change in their relationship from friends and allies to… something else.  Whatever they are now.  Sometimes Dean considers what to call Cas, what label he could put to how she fits into his life—but he always finds himself shrugging off the conventional labels, girlfriend, lover, partner.  She’s Cas.  His Cas.  That’s it.

And that’s it, isn’t it?  “Cas is Cas,” Dean tells Sam finally with a shrug.

This ridiculous smile appears on Sam’s face—it’s like Sam’s two seconds away from saying, _awwww how cute_.  Dean will be two seconds away from punching him if that comes out of his damn mouth.

Thankfully, the kettle decides to shriek so Dean makes quick work of getting Cas her tea and getting the hell back to bed.  
  
She’s still out like a light, the covers pulled up over half her face, her cheek slipped off her pillow and resting on her arm.  Dean sets her tea down on the bedside table and tries not to disturb her when he goes to his side of their bed and climbs under the sheets.  He’s only half-successful at not disturbing her—she rolls over and grabs onto him with a grumpy sound, but she doesn’t wake up completely.  Her freezing cold toes dip beneath his pajama pants, trying to steal his warmth. 

Her skin didn’t used to be so cold.  Back when she had her grace, she was her own little space heater, but now that she’s human she complains about being cold all the time.  It’s a perfectly good excuse to bundle her up in blankets and sweaters—and to cuddle when Sam won’t give Dean shit for it.

Yeah, he does that.  Cuddles with Cas.  Cooks her and his brother breakfast and dinner.  _Relaxes._ Lets go of the macho image he’s been holding up for so long.

Dean doesn’t know what it is about these days, maybe it’s this _place,_ but he feels good here.  Safe, at ease.  It’s been maybe two months now of downtime and all three of them are getting settled here, taking time off and making this bunker a home.

Dean’s been tired for a long damn time.  He’s still got old voices in him that say shit like, _what are you doing sitting on your ass, no hunter retires, you'll die covered in your own blood with a gun in your hand,_ but it’s been years and years and years of fighting and running and scraping by.  He looks in the mirror when he gets up every morning and tells himself that it’s okay to rest.  It’s okay to be here.  It’s okay to cook everyone breakfast and to curl up next to Cas every time he gets in their bed.

And when the hunter voices that all sound like his dad yelling at him about fighting the good fight get loud enough that those words— _it’s okay—_ won’t help, Dean tells himself they’re setting up a headquarters for the next generation of hunters.  All the information in this bunker has to be organized—and just because they all set their guns down for the time being doesn’t mean they’re civilians.

Mostly though, Dean knows he, Sam, and Cas all want the rest.  They’ve had enough fighting to last lifetimes and it’s about damn time they let themselves recover.

Castiel curls closer to Dean, laying her head on his chest and pressing up into the hand he cards through her hair.  She’s got a mess of bedhead cowlicks that Dean doesn’t bother trying to fix.  

Jamie had a fashionable pixie cut that Cas decided she prefers—she’s due for a haircut soon, the ends starting to flip and curl.  Dean wonders what she’d look like with long hair, but knows that before too long she’d get irritated with it to the point of probably shaving it all off.

Though she got pretty annoyed with the idea of shaving too once she lost her grace and had to start maintaining that herself.

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” Dean had told her when she’d stomped out of the shower once with one leg still fuzzy and the other with razor burn.

“Why don’t _you_ have to shave your legs?” she demanded, throwing her hands in the air and growling when he replied that guys weren’t expected to.

She finished her other leg and then promptly threw away all the disposable razors he’d bought her and said, _never again._ Dean punched Sam in the arm when Sam didn’t hide his laughter.

Dean remembers walking through a Walmart once when he was maybe eight—Dad wasn’t paying too much attention to him, too focused on getting something else.  Dean had Sam in tow and they wandered into the girls’ clothing section.  Dean remembers taking one of the plaid dresses off the hanger and holding it up to his body to see if maybe it would fit him.  He doesn’t remember why he thought it would be a good idea to do so, but he does remember Dad finding them soon after and snatching the dress from Dean’s hands, snarling that they weren’t supposed to be in this section, boys don’t wear these clothes, and don’t wander off, for Christ’s sake.  It took him a long time to get over that memory of how John looked at him then.

Dean does not _ever_ want Cas to feel that sick shame of wanting something like that and having someone else demand that you can’t.  You _shouldn’t._  He’s spent too many years carrying that guilt around and Cas shouldn’t have to feel it too.

As far as he’s concerned, Cas gets to do what she wants with her own body and nobody else gets a say in it, not even Dean.  He can make suggestions, sure, but if Cas turns something down flat, Dean shuts up about it.  He wants Cas to be happy and comfortable in her own skin.  He’s sure it’s hard enough being human after being a wave of celestial intent—she doesn’t need any bullshit societal pressure from anybody.

This bunker is their home now.  Dean’s always craved a safe place, so that’s what he'll make this.  A safe place for all of them.  

Dean reaches over to his bedside table and picks up his cup of coffee, trying to settle in for the time being while Cas mimics an octopus.  Cas frowns and nuzzles her face into his chest, hands tightening around him in an obvious command for him to be still.  

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, hiding a grin in his coffee though she’s not even looking.

She hums in response and throws her leg over his, presses closer.  And that’s when Dean notices that Cas is wearing her strap on harness, nothing through the o-ring, but something stuffed beneath the briefs materiel.  Dean moves his thigh against it, curious.

Cas pushes back against him and opens her eyes just wide enough to squint up at him, looking for all the world like a grumpy kitten.  “Mrrr,” she says and he smiles somewhat sheepishly at her.

“Morning, sleepyhead.  Is that a phone in your pocket or are you happy to see me?”

Cas shuts her eyes and sighs, her voice low and rough with sleep.  “It’s too early for me to decipher your gibberish, Dean.”  She pauses.  “And I’m not wearing pants, so I clearly have no pockets.”

Dean chuckles, drinks some more of his coffee.  “It’s 9am, that’s a perfectly reasonable hour to be awake.”  He tilts his head down to brush a kiss to the top of her head.  “I made you some tea if you want it.”

“Hmm,” she says, twisting her arm to grope across the bed like she can use the Force to summon her cup to her.

He laughs outright, sets his coffee down, and leans over her to fetch the cup.  She sits up just enough to not be in danger of spilling tea all over the both of them, but sticks close to him.

“You’re very warm,” she tells him, curling her hands around the mug and taking a sip.  “Mm, perfect, thank you.”

“No big deal,” he says, easy.  They’re both quiet for a few minutes, sipping their drinks and Dean enjoys the moment, the close contact.  He’s glad they’re here, that after so many years of running and fighting there is this place, this room, this bed here for them.

“It’s, um, socks,” Cas says really quietly, pushing her hips forward a little so that he knows what she’s talking about.  She doesn’t look him in the eyes, staring into her tea.  “I can’t wear the other one all the time.”

Ahhh.  The ‘other one’ being the dick Cas fucked him with a week ago.  Dean shivers pleasantly at the memory, then shoves those thoughts aside to consider what Cas’s said.  “Yeah, I can see how that wouldn’t be too comfortable.”  His dick has way more mobility when hard than hers does—and hers is obviously alwayshard.  Definitely not something she can wear outside of sex, if she wants to.  “Sounds frustrating.”  

She frowns unhappily, taking a big gulp of her tea, draining about half her cup before she maneuvers herself away from him to set it down.  She comes back and presses her face into his neck.  He can feel that frown against his throat.

He sets his own mug down to free up both his hands to stroke along her back and sides.  She’s in nothing but the sock-stuffed harness, and he coaxes her into his arms, pulling the sheets up over both of them.  “Can I ask why you want to pack?”

“Pack?”

He places a hesitant hand on her hip, thumb dipping beneath the elastic band of the harness.  He resists the urge to palm the bulge the socks are creating, not wanting to touch without permission.  “That’s what it’s called when you wear this.  You’re packing with socks.”

“Oh.”  Cas reaches down and moves his hand so both of their hands press down over the socks.  He knows it’s just a pair of socks there, but he likes it, likes the feel of it there between her legs.  It’s not about him though, it’s about Cas.  This is something she decided to do on her own and he likes that, wants to know about it.  Wants to know about her.

She moves her head back to look at him, something akin to nervousness in her eyes.  “How do you know what it’s called?”

He tries to give her a reassuring smile.  “Remember those queer hunter bars I told you I used to go to?  I’ve met a few people who did this.”  He leans forward to brush a kiss to her mouth, relieved when some of the visible tension in her fades.  “It’s okay, you know.  To want to.  And there doesn’t have to be a why, I was just wondering if you have a reason.”

She glances down at the place where their hands meet under the covers, her fingers filling the spaces between his.  “I liked the weight of the one I wore before.  Something felt really good about it.  Not just when I was inside you,” she adds, looking back up at him with a sly smile.  “I enjoyed that immensely, but it wasn’t just about sex.  There was...”  The smile fades into the frown again.  “The before?  When I put it on.  Something was... I don’t know if I have the words yet for why I want to.”  

Dean wants to kiss her again, wants to find some way to put her at ease.  “It’s okay,” he tries, and she leans into him, but looks away.

“I wanted to wear it the past few days,” she confesses.  “But it’s... unwieldy.”

“We can look into getting you a soft packer," Dean tells her, and he’s really grateful to Micah, the genderfluid guy he met and hunted with all those years ago.  He knows a little bit about this sort of stuff as a result.  "It’s like the other dick, except it’s not for sex.  It’s something you can wear all the time, if you want.”

Cas freakin’ _lights up_ at that idea.  “Really?”

Dean grins and makes a mental note to steal the laptop today.

-

It’s Sam’s turn to go into town to run errands the day the package comes in.   He pops his head into the library where Cas and Dean are organizing some of the endless amount of stuff the Men of Letters left behind, and yells, “Hey, I need help getting groceries out of the car.  And there’s a box for you from the post office, Cas.  I went ahead and put it in your room.”

Cas gasps and scrambles out from under the piles and piles of files she was sifting through.  She slips on a couple of papers, rights herself, and then fucking _bolts_ down the hall in the direction of their room.

Sam gives Dean a wide eyed look, like _what’s that about?_ Dean waves a hand at him, _don’t worry about it_.

Sam narrows his eyes with suspicion, looking at the doorway and then back at Dean.  “This isn’t some sex thing you guys got, right?" he bitches, long-suffering.   “I know about the fake dick, man, I keep telling you guys to close out of all your tabs ‘cause I don’t want to know about what you get up to…”

Dean shoves past Sam and starts heading outside.  Normally, he’d crack some joke about what he and Cas get up to just to rile Sam up, but not this time.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, keeping his voice mild, though he’s dead serious.  They go out through the doors to where the Impala is parked, plastic bags of groceries in the shotgun seat and all along the back.  Dean goes for the ones in the front first, pleased to see all the fresh vegetables Sam bought.  He’s got a new appreciation for the rabbit food now that he’s cooking for everyone.  “Not that it’s any of your business, dude, but it’s not a sex thing.  And,” he pauses, deciding if he should say this or not.  “Don’t call Cas’s dick fake.”

Sam hooks a couple of bags along each wrist, looking bewildered.  “She, uh, thinks of it as her dick?  Wait, like... does she wants one?  Is this some sort of Freudian penis envy thing?”

Jesus.  “No.”  Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t say that to her either.”

Sam has so many frown lines on his gigantic forehead.  “I wouldn’t!  I just...”  He opens and closes his mouth, thinking of something to say and then apparently thinking better of it.

Dean really does not want to explain any of the reasons why Cas wants to wear a dick.  Sure, it started out as a request from him about pegging, but he can tell it’s something else now.  He doesn’t know what’s exactly going on, but he’s following her lead on it.  When she knows the words, she’ll tell him.

“Isn’t it weird though?” Sam finally asks when they’re in the kitchen unloading all the grocery bags and putting everything away.  He keeps his voice low, glancing down the hall like he’s nervous about being overheard.

“Is what weird,” Dean says flatly.  “Me having sex with Cas while she has a dick or just Cas with a dick.”

“Uh.”

Dean stops what he’s doing and looks at his brother, waiting for Sam to decide if he really wants to talk about this.

“I just...” Sam starts, swallows, and then goes on.  “I guess I just didn’t expect you to be cool with something like this.  I didn’t think you were into... that.”

Dean kind of wants to laugh at Sam fumbling with this, but he also wants to take all the stuff he learned during the Stanford years and forcibly insert it into Sam’s brain.  Sam doesn’t know jack about what Dean went through, coming out to himself and keeping it under wraps for so long.  Meeting others, making friends, learning that there’s more to the community than gay people.

Maybe Sam doesn’t know, Dean reminds himself.  Maybe the only queer person Sam thinks he knows is Charlie.  Maybe that should change.  Dean breathes slowly, in and out.

Where to start?

“Okay,” he begins, hedging, and he tries to look Sam in the eye, but finds that he can’t.  He clenches his hands into fists and stares into the spices cabinet.  “First off, if I wasn’t cool with how Cas wants to be, I’d be an asshole.  It has nothing to do with me.”  Okay.  Now...  “The fact that I occasionally like something up my ass does not make me...”  Come on, Dean, you can say it.  “... queer.”  

Breathe.  Okay.  Hard part’s almost over.  

“Being queer makes me queer,” he says, very carefully, keenly feeling each word falling out of his mouth.  “And me being queer doesn’t have any impact on Cas’s identity.  And... Cas wearing anything during sex or otherwise doesn’t have to mean anything about who she is.  So don’t draw any conclusions about her unless she says something directly to you.”

Sam doesn’t say anything for a long moment.  Then—“Wow.  That’s... a lot.”

Dean goes back to organizing cans onto their proper shelves.  His hands are shaking, his face hot.  He ignores this.

“So... I just want to be sure I understand,” Sam says slowly.  “Cas has a... I mean, she wants to... wear a dick?  And you’re... not straight?”

Dean shrugs.  He doesn’t know if he can say anything else, doesn’t want to argue the finer points.  He’s said enough already.  Sam can take it or leave it.

“It doesn’t matter to me, you know,” Sam says, suddenly really earnest.  “Like... you’re my brother and Cas is Cas.  You’re my family.  You can do or be _whatever_ , I just... wasn’t expecting that.”

Dean didn’t need validation, but relief floods through him all the same.  He shrugs again, forces words out.  “I get it.”   _Thanks, Sammy._

Dean sees Sam nod out of the corner of his eye.  “Okay.”

They finish sorting the groceries in silence, but it feels okay.  It feels good.  It feels like someone took a weight off Dean’s shoulders that he's been carrying around for a long time.

-

Cas is positively _giddy_ when Dean finds her later.  She’s back in the library, at the table sorting through files, making notes and corrections on information.  When he pulls up a chair next to her, she grins at him and sprawls back in her own chair, spreading her legs.

Dean can’t help glancing at the crotch of her jeans, the bulge of her dick subtle but there.  Noticeable enough if you know to look.  Cas practically preens at the attention, shifting her hips up in a display.  

Dean doesn’t want to make this about sex, but _damn._ His own dick twitches and a number of thoughts cross his brain—her rubbing up against him, maybe, him dropping to his knees in the space she’s made between her legs, him unzipping her jeans and pressing his face to that new, soft cock of hers.  Damn.   _Damn._

“How do I look?” she asks, voice low though they’re the only ones in the room.

Dean swallows, pulls his gaze away from her crotch and gives her a slow once-over, taking her in.  From the curling tips of her dark hair down to her socked feet, he looks at her and thinks about how lucky he is to have her here.  “Cas,” he starts, her name warm in his voice even to his own ears.  “You look awesome.”

“I _feel_ awesome,” she says, beaming.  Then her smile fades into something shy and she straightens in her seat.  “Maybe it’s silly to be excited about this, but...”  

She looks at the papers in front of her and he can see her going somewhere far away.  He wants to reach for her, to bring her gaze back to here, but he waits instead.

“I’m still trying to figure out how to be comfortable, how to reconcile my body with my brain.  Humans have such strange ideas about bodies and gender, and I’m... I know I’m human now, but I don’t fit some of your standards.”  She brushes her fingers along her temple and then taps against the place on her chest where her grace once warmed her.  “I suppose I don’t feel like a woman.  But I don’t know what a woman is supposed to feel like.  I just know that I feel good right now—and this isn’t normal, is it?”

Dean takes her hand in his and squeezes.  _Don’t worry about that,_ he wants to say, _I want you to feel safe, it doesn’t matter what normal is, normal is bullshit,_ but he lets her talk, lets her go on.

“I wish there was someone I could talk to about this, someone who could explain.  But I don’t know who.”  Grief and confusion twists her face into a frown.  “Sometimes I wish Jamie were still here.   _She_ was a woman, we were with each other, perhaps she could explain what I feel.  But she’s been gone for so long, this isn’t _our_ body anymore, it’s mine.  It’s only me in this body, it’s only me with this mind.”  She exhales a frustrated huff, looking down at their joined hands.  “There’s only me.”

He’s not sure what to say.  He doesn’t have answers for her, no matter how much he’d like to.  “I’m not going to be any help with that,” he says after a moment.  “I’ve wanted to do and wear stuff that isn’t considered normal for men, but I’ve never felt like I wasn’t a man.  But there are people out there who probably have similar feelings.  There’s a chance that some of them are hunters.  If you want to find them, you can.  There were places before for people like us.  It’s been years since I’ve really looked, but I can’t imagine there aren’t any anymore.”

Cas nods slowly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.  He cards his free hand through her hair and kisses her temple.

“Just think about it,” he tells her.  “I’ve got your back regardless.  I may not get what you’re feeling, but I’m here.  I’m not going anywhere.”

That earns him a smile, small but soft.  The kind she gives him just before she says she loves him.

“C’mon,” he says, rising from his seat and tugging her up with him.  “These books’ll keep.  You wanna show me?”

-

It’s definitely not a normal strip tease.  Not that Cas does those—Dean may have laughed when she first took her clothes off in front of him, couldn’t help it.  She meticulously folds everything as she strips it off her body.  She’s done this ever since she got new clothes and recognized that she couldn’t mojo wrinkles away anymore.  

Shirts, bras, pants—she would have folded her socks, except Dean pointed out that she might get them confused with her clean laundry.

Dean gets it, sort of.  All the days of scrounging for quarters taught him to be kinda anal about his clothes and try to limit the laundromat trips he’d have to make.  Obviously, dirt and bloodstains were inevitable, but he learned tricks to get stains out fast, picked up habits to keep things pretty neat most days.

Dean suspects this habit Cas has picked up is also a result of Sam attempting (and failing) to teach her how to iron.  For someone who watched the world form and witnessed practically all of human history, she doesn’t have the patience for the most mundane of tasks.  Pressing wrinkles out of dress shirts is one of them.

So Dean sits on the bed while she takes her time with undressing, maintaining this calm, careful rhythm.  Dean finds it endearing, actually, that undressing is a ritual for her.

But he wants to change it up a little right now.  She’s only half naked, setting her bra on top of two shirts (she picked up his habit of layering) when he tells her to stop.  “Wait.”  He catches her hands, brings them to his mouth so he can press kisses to her palms as offerings.  “Let me?”

“Dean,” she whispers, cupping his face, smoothing her thumbs along his cheeks.  

He leans in to kiss her gently as he pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her.  Her smooth skin under his hands is something he thinks he’s addicted to now.  So much time was lost when they were at each other’s throats, so much time lost when she was far from him.

He wants to tell her so many things with just his two hands.  Words aren’t enough.  He’s said _I love you,_ but the words are sparse.  They can’t hold everything he feels for her.

He thinks he understands her frustration with English, wishes he knew something of the Old Tongue, the angelic language predating Enochian speech.  She tries to sing it these days with her limited human vocal cords and she says she misses layers upon layers of meaning.

He trails his fingers along her sides, slides his palms up her back to press against her shoulder blades.  She arches back into his touch, the soft sound she makes muffled against his mouth.  He brings one hand up into her dark hair to cradle the back of her head, just for a moment, just long enough to feel her breathe a contented sigh into him.

He kisses his way to her neck and licks down her thrumming pulse, presses teeth against her collarbone, not hard, not biting, just holding.  His hands against her back, pads of his fingers trailing down the curve of her spine then curling over her hips.  

She exhales slowly, breath trembling, her own hands sliding restlessly through his hair.

“Okay?” he murmurs against her skin and she hums her assent.

He nuzzles the gap between her breasts and then shifts back so he can watch himself lay one hand against the front of her jeans, curious.  She tilts her pelvis forward, pushing against his palm—and he can feel her, the shaft and head of her dick just barely pronounced through denim and cotton.

He wants more, that earlier desire to press his face against this new soft cock coming back in full force.

The floor is cold and hard against his knees, but he kneels anyway and unhooks Cas’s belt, pulling it out of the belt loops and folding it up on the floor.  Cas’s hands clench and unclench at her sides, like she wants to touch, but isn’t sure if she can.  He nudges up against her knuckles, thinking _please,_ and he’s rewarded with one of her hands touching his face, tilting his chin up so their eyes meet.

He keeps his eyes on hers as he slides his hands up her legs and undoes the button and zipper of her jeans, pulling back the denim.  She shifts her hips forward and, _yes_ , that’s her dick pressing up against the side of his face.

He moans, eyes fluttering shut.  “ _Cas_.”

She pushes against his cheek again, cotton sliding soft against him.  He curls his fingers in her waistband and rubs back against her dick, relishing the feel of her.  It must be a sight for her—him here on his knees for her, nuzzling her dick like a cat.  His mouth curves into a smile as he noses his way across the y-front of her navy blue boxer briefs, finding the teasing line of cyberskin in the gap between cotton.

He rocks back on his heels, opens his eyes, and then tugs on her jeans hard.  “Off,” he insists, and she _laughs_ , this burst of joy that comes and fills him with warmth.

“It might be easier if I sit down,” she says, walking backwards and then sitting on the edge of the bed.  She lets him pull her jeans off instead of doing it herself because she knows, he’s sure she knows that he wants to do this, wants his hands on her, reverent.

He is so tempted to bundle up her jeans and throw them in the corner just to mess with her though, but she pins him with look that is both knowing and stern.  He grins sheepishly, and folds them properly before setting them down with her belt.

Then he comes back and kisses her knees, hands gently pushing apart her fuzzy legs and hiking her thighs up over his shoulders to make space for him.  “There we go,” he purrs, pressing his forehead against her and pausing, breathing for a minute.  Her hands run through his hair, blunt nails scritching soothing little circles.

“I love you,” she says, and there’s gratitude and wonder in those three words.  He looks up to meet her eyes, watches them widen when he presses a kiss to the bulge of her dick.

He’s not going to lie, this whole thing definitely turns him on—but it’s a slow burn in his blood and it’s something softer than lust.  There’s something so open about Cas right now, a quiet vulnerability in her face as she watches him press his mouth against this cotton covered, unfamiliar part of her.

“How do you feel?” he asks, finding the subtle impression of the head and rubbing his cheekbone against it.  “Talk to me.”

“I feel… _comfort_.”  The corners of her eyes tighten as she tries to find the words.  “The weight is comforting.  I feel like…”  She touches his face, gentle fingers trailing to where he’s pressed against her.  “There was an empty space here that’s been filled.  It’s good to have something here.”

“Can I see?”

He loves the smile that question gets him.  Cas nods and lets him carefully pull her boxer briefs off.  She’s wearing the black and red briefs harness beneath, her soft dick’s shaft curving out from the o-ring, the balls hidden from view.

“I got a small one,” she says, touching the pale cyberskin, rubbing her thumb along the cut head.  “I wanted to be sure I could wear it with jeans.”

Right.  Because there wouldn’t be a space designated for it in women’s jeans.  Dean nods a little absently, his hands curved against Cas’s hips so he doesn’t touch her dick.  He wants to—his palms are itching with his desire—but he doesn’t want to do anything without permission.  This isn’t about him.

“It’s softer than I imagined,” she tells him.  “I’m not sure what I was imagining, but the softness surprised me.  I think I may have been expecting something similar to the hard dick, but this isn’t like that.”

“I still want to put my mouth on it,” Dean blurts out then blushes furiously.  He hides his face by pressing it into her knee.  “Sorry.  Keep talking.”

He feels Cas lean over and kiss the top of his head, both her hands against the back of his neck.  “You don’t know how happy it makes me that you accept me like this, Dean.  That you accept _me_ after everything.”

_I love you_ , he thinks in answer.  Sometimes he still can’t pull them out of his chest, but he knows she knows.

“Thank you,” she says very quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, embarrassed.  She really doesn’t have to thank him for that.  

At the same time, though, he thinks he understands the impulse—there have been so many times when he’s wanted to thank _her_ for being with _him_ in spite of everything.  The road hasn’t been easy for them and he’s so grateful they’re together here, he could burst.

She leans back and tilts his face up so he meets her eyes.  “You can touch me.  I’m not sure about your mouth on me, though.  I want you to, but that might have to wait for my hard dick.”

He tries not to look disappointed, but he can hear it in his voice when he says, “I’ll save the blowjobs for your hard dick, but I wanted to at least kiss this one.”

She laughs, the expression on her face more fond than anything else now.  “You really like having your face in my lap.”

He grins.  “What can I say, I feel like my face belongs here.”

Cas kisses him, her hands still cupping his face.  He can feel her smiling against his mouth and he is so happy.  So happy.

When Cas pulls back, Dean reaches for her hands, taking them in his and squeezing.  “You good?”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas still has a smile on her face and the joy in him multiplies when he recognizes that she is the most calm, the most _settled_ he’s ever seen her.  “I’m very good.”


End file.
